


Red Door Black

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awkward Flirting, F/M, Gen, Halloween, John Watson is a Saint, Look At Your Life Look At Your Choices, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Suggestions of the Supernatural
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-22 03:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2492924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a house in old Soho, a house which has many secrets. </p><p>A house which should be left alone. </p><p>But when Sherlock Holmes tempts both Molly Hooper and John Watson inside this house one Halloween, he has no idea what he's unleashing, or the price they will pay for his curiosity. </p><p>After all, what sort of detective believes in ghosts?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Sweet-Bitter

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. I originally tried posting this story before, but couldn't seem to get into it. Now though, I think I know where it's going... So strap yourselves in for a good, old-fashioned ghost story...

* * *

**PROLOGUE: SWEET-BITTER**

* * *

_London, Soho,_

_Midnight, October 31st_

"Sherlock?" she says. "Sherlock?"

_Scream of splintering wood, slivers of it cutting into his skin. Voice hoarse, hands scratching, but no purchase to be found, none, no, none at all._ _**None at all** _ _. Just the cold, swift slide downwards into the pit- Into Perdition-_

_It closes around him like an embrace._

_Impact comes, hard and sharp, body tossed about like a rag doll. He lands, face down, wetness in his lungs, against his palms. Snatch of pain in his forehead, a dull ache, then blazing agony in his chest, his leg. Broken, he thinks, broken. He's broken… Something…_

_Something…_

_**Someone** _ _._

_And the someone isn't him._

_**The someone is never, ever him.** _

_Echo comes then, a beat of music. A measure._

_If he could move his lips he'd sing it…_

" _Darling, you send me…Oh darling, you send me…"_

_Blood in his mouth now- Tongue bitten, eyes pressed tightly shut. He doesn't want to see the thing he knows he'll see if he looks into the darkness. Doesn't want to see the thing he knows he's done. He can hear people far away, moving debris. Trying to reach him. Footsteps scuff the floor above him, the sound of someone scrambling down to touch him, to pull him up, to bring him back-_

_But it' s too late._

_She's gone, she's gone._

_He wants to say it but the words won't form._

_**She's gone, she's gone and I did it, I did** _ _that_ _**to her** _ **-**

_The music is in his head, inside him. Around him. Honey-toned and golden, sweet-bitter as a lullaby…_

" _You send me…" he murmurs, "you send me, darling you do…"_

_He feels the press of a finger against his pulse then, thinks he feels himself being moved. He can hear a voice- "Sherlock," it's saying, "What did you take, Sherlock?" And then-"Get an ambulance, for Christ's sake… I'm a doctor. Get an ambulance_ _**now,** _ _you moron-"_

Molly Hooper sinks slowly, woodenly, down to the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees. She stares at her bloodied fingernails, tries to make sense of what she has just done...

And inside Sherlock's mind the music lilts on. 


	2. Small Favour

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE: SMALL FAVOUR**

* * *

_London, Leicester Square,_

_Twenty-Four Hours Earlier_

_The Bride of Dracula is looking rather… queasy_ , Molly thought, as she watched the floating performer in front of the Empire cinema in Leicester Square.

The woman's wig was askew. Her makeup was running. A long, white, nightie-like wedding gown slipped down around her shoulders and threatened to give the gathered crowd an eyeful.  _At least she looked like one of the characters in the Hammer Horror Triple Bill she was advertising,_ the pathologist thought. The actress was being shaken about on a metal hoist, clearly unsure which way she was going to be moved and trying to frighten small children and look ethereal all at the same time: In that position, Molly suspected, she'd look rather queasy too.

 _Thank heavens,_ Molly thought,  _that I'd more sense than to try to become an actor_.

_For those with a ghoulish disposition, pathology really was more the way to go._

As Molly watched, the young woman reached her hands out beseechingly, showing a mouthful of- frankly fake-looking- teeth before jerking uncomfortably as the older man controlling her rig shook her once again. She turned and shot the man an entirely convincing snarl, her teeth drawn back, and he grinned at her. Shook her a little more.

"Try to stay professional, love," he called lightly, and the gathered crowd snickered, much to the Bride's chagrin-

"Good God, Molly," a familiar voice sounded behind her. "Is this what you do with your time off?"

And she turned around to see Sherlock Holmes grinning at her, arms crossed over his chest. John Watson stood behind him.

"No wonder Mike never lets you out of the morgue," the detective chortled.

John rolled his eyes heavenward.

"And by that, he means hello, you look lovely, and how have you been?" he said.

Immediately Molly's eyes dropped down to her costume. It was for later: her friend Jenny was having a Halloween costume party and for the first time in half a decade she was actually going to be able to go. For this reason she'd made a special effort: she was painted corpse-girl blue, wearing a matching, lighter blue chiffon prom dress, and Stassi, one of the Australian nurses, had carefully drawn black stitches all over her face, chest and arms. The effect was supposed to be something along the lines of Sandra Dee meets Sally from  _The Nightmare Before Christmas,_ but like everything else she tried her hand at, with Sherlock looking at it the costume felt wrong.  _Stupid._ In fact, he probably thought she was an idiot dressing up at all. Costume parties- parties in general, especially Halloween ones- were the sort of thing that big, complex brain of his probably couldn't fathom: He seemed to "get," Christmas, because it was about family, but something like Halloween would, she suspected, be a mystery too far-

As she thought this Sherlock opened his mouth to comment and instinctively Molly braced herself, willing herself not to be hurt by whatever cruel thing he said. But at the sight of her expression, he suddenly closed his mouth again. Fell silent.

She had the oddest sensation that he'd changed his mind about what he wanted to say to her.

"That blue make-up suits you, Ms. Hooper," he said instead. Suddenly he looked slightly… uncomfortable. Hesitant. "As does the dress. Really, you make quite a becoming… Corpse? Zombie?"

She nodded stiffly. "Reanimated cadaver is the correct term, I think."

Sherlock nodded gravely. "Indeed." He threw John a helpless look and the doctor made a shooing, get-on-with-it gesture she didn't understand in the context.

 _It was almost like Watson wanted him to tell her something specific, but she couldn't guess what_.

"And are you doing anything else for the… festivities?" Sherlock asked.

He was tugging slightly at his coat sleeve, as if he were nervous, and again Molly couldn't fathom why.

"I've tickets to a midnight Hammer triple bill in the Empire," she said, chucking her thumb over her shoulder towards the cinema.

"You're going alone?" Sherlock asked, and instantly her cheeks went red.

"Yes," she said shortly, preparing for a joke at her expense. "I couldn't be sure I'd have the night off until the last minute: didn't exactly make it easy to find a date-"

"Obviously." Sherlock didn't make a joke, but he didn't seem comfortable either. He just looked, somewhat helplessly, at John, who made the get-on-with-it gesture again before turning around to examine the price-list of the cut-price theatre ticket booth behind him.

A long, awkward silence stretched out.

"Yes, well, I'm sure you'll enjoy it," Sherlock said eventually, with false brightness. "I'm holding you up, I should let you get along-"

And with a sharp nod he extended his hand, shook hers in a thoroughly old-fashioned, stiff-upper-lipped British way and went to walk off. Spine ram-rod straight, coat flapping behind him, looking like nothing so much as a Victorian version of Jack Skellington. His escape would have succeeded too if he hadn't walked directly into John, who mysteriously chose that exact moment to step back from the ticket booth and get in his friend's way. Digging him in the side with his elbow and muttering something which sounded suspiciously like,  _grow a spine, Sherlock_ , while manoeuvring him back towards Molly.

At the sight Molly raised her eyebrows- what on Earth was going on with him?- and Sherlock smiled a smile she recognised, the one he thought was charming which he used when he wanted her to do something. Instantly she tensed up.

Two years he'd been gone, two long years.

She'd become immune to the effects of that smile in his absence, he could just see if she hadn't.

She sighed. "What do you actually want, Sherlock?" she asked him.

This would all go a lot more smoothly if he just got to the point.

He opened his mouth- "I don't want-" and then seemed to think better of it again. He cleared his throat. "I was actually wondering whether I might trouble you for a small favour, Molly?"

She crossed her arms defensively over her chest. "It's my night off, Sherlock: I'm not going into work-"

"-And I'm not asking you to go into work," he retorted quickly. "I was just wondering… Just wondering whether you wanted to help me with a minor case Mycroft has me looking into?"

She couldn't be sure, but she swore John snorted something that sounded a lot like  _for the love of God, Sherlock._

Sherlock however, being Sherlock, ignored him.

"It's not far from here," he was saying, "and it's quite an interesting story. Old house, been in my family for years. They were renovating the place and they found some human remains in the basement. It's all very-" He looked at her costume, his eyes, she swore, lingering on her chest for a hairsbreadth longer than was disinterested- "macabre. What with Halloween and all.

So would you like to come and take a look?"

Molly narrowed her eyes. That did, she hated to admit it, sound interesting.

"Will I miss the film?" she asked, though it was unlikely. It was only 9.15 now.

Sherlock shook his head. "I promise I'll get you to the film." He smiled again but this was his real smile, the one he used on John, on Mary, on Mrs. Hudson. It was the one Molly liked, though he had never before used it on her. "Even if I have to sneak you in through the back door," he said, "you'll get your evening, you have my word."

He looked at her, quiet and intense, for a moment.

"Please," he said, and there it was again, that hesitation. That damn hesitation.

_It was proof that the man really could make anything attractive._

Molly worried her lip for a moment, undecided. On the one hand, it was something interesting, and something interesting with Sherlock Holmes, no less, who seemed slightly more inclined to civility tonight than he normally might be. But on the other hand, it was something interesting with  _Sherlock Holmes_ , who for all she knew would abandon her in the middle of a spooky old house while he went off searching for specimens and God only knew what else.

Maybe the reason for her indecision was obvious, because with a martyred sigh John walked back to his friend. "If you're worried, Molly," he said, "I'll be there the whole time too."

She smiled- "That would be better-" and for some reason she couldn't fathom Sherlock pouted like a small child who'd had his fun ruined.

 _That did not bode well for the rest of the evening,_ she thought.

But though he now sported a face like a smacked arse, Sherlock forced himself to smile at her, that same nervousness, hesitation, running through him. He was practically vibrating with it. "Excellent," he said. "Now let's get along, shall we?"

"God help me," she heard John mutter.

And with that she, Watson and Sherlock were off down Wardour Street towards Old Compton Street, Holmes filling her in on the history of the area as they went.


	3. The Red Door

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Thanks for their reviews go to Murasaki-chan and BAdeMorte. 

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO: THE RED DOOR**

* * *

_Soho,_

_Old Compton Street,_

_10 Minutes Later_

_Mycroft is getting more ridiculous by the day_ , Sherlock thought as he finally rounded the corner of Old Compton Street and saw the building he was looking for.

Sending him to look into this place was simply the latest piece of evidence.

The elder Holmes had been on edge for weeks now, antsy- or at least as antsy as he ever got- and snapping at everyone. Even Anthea was in the doghouse, and normally she could do no wrong. In fact, Sherlock wouldn't have been surprised if his elder brother  _were_ planning on starting a war: the last time he'd been this nervous was just before the Berlin Wall came down, but he hadn't even been with the government very long then, so Sherlock had no proof he'd had anything to do with  _that._

(The timing of his absences had been suspicious though).

Be that as it may however, Mycroft was jumping at every shadow, watching him even more closely than usual. His security detail had been doubled, and even John could feel himself being watched. Inwardly the detective grimaced: It wasn't like he couldn't give Mycroft's boys the slip, but he was curious as to what Brother Dearest was up to, and why it all seemed to be connected to the house before him…

26 Old Compton Street.

A house like any other.

_Except for the fact that it had been in the Holmes' family for longer than the current royal family had been on the throne._

It was triple storey, red brick. Faded in its glory. Steps led up to the front door and down to the servant's entrance below, the brickwork filthy. Forgotten and peeling and dank. What had once been a polished brass plaque beside the door proclaimed it the home of  _The Luciferia, A Club for the Discerning Gentleman_ , which was a long-winded way of saying the place had once been a brothel. Not that that was all that unusual in this part of town: Soho had been synonymous with sin for centuries. This building stood out though, out of place amidst the restaurants, bars and occasional sex shops which peppered the area, a remnant of another time and place entirely. A ghost on a winter's evening.

As Sherlock stared at the building's dull, peeling, oddly vibrant red door he couldn't help but notice the shiver that thrummed down his spine. He could have sworn-

For a moment he could have sworn that someone was looking at him through one of the windows, a flash of white that might have been a face.

But as the windows were boarded up on the first floor and curtained heavily on the others, that was impossible. He shook his head to himself.

_All the Halloween talk of ghouls and ghosts was clearly making him fanciful._

Besides, he had something else to think of. After all, this little jaunt had given him an opportunity to spend more time with Molly. And while John's rolled eyes and shudder might suggest that he could have come up with a better way to do so, Sherlock felt fairly certain that inviting her along had been one of his more brilliant ideas. Molly loved dark and haunted things, she adored ghost stories. The books she carried in her bag were by Le Fanu, James, Lovecraft. She seemed uninterested in modern writers of the genre, and for that he could not blame her. She was a woman of taste.

 _And being a woman of taste, a trip to a house like this would thrill her_.

Which was, of course, the point of the exercise. Ever since his triumph after the Moriarty Hoax, he'd been aware that his feelings for Molly were more… friendly than they had been before he left. The way she had helped him and kept his secrets had surprised him, and her newer, more assertive way of dealing with him was infinitely preferable to her previous, stammering, simpering self.

 _He had also been unable to ignore quite how distasteful he found her relationship with Tom_.

In the last six months since he'd gotten back, Sherlock had become aware that Molly was quite an interesting woman in her own right, and one he'd like to know better. He found her help on his cases invaluable, especially now John often had prior commitments to Mary (and especially now that the afore-mentioned idiot, Tom, was no longer a factor). And so he had decided to examine his feelings, perhaps pursue them to see if they led anywhere…

He had haltingly explained this to John, and John had haltingly agreed to help him get her attention. If he could. And if Sherlock behaved himself.

" _Don't be a ponce to her," Watson had told him, "and you might- I stress might- still be in with a chance, mate."_

As far as Sherlock was concerned, running into her was this chance.

He'd make sure she enjoyed herself if he had to spend the entire night at her side.

Again he felt that twinge of unease. He couldn't help but suspect that he might have  _other_ **,** less pleasant reasons for not letting her out of his sight. He sighed to himself at the thought though: the city's current, seasonal obsession with the supernatural was getting to him.

 _As if Molly Hooper would have anything to fear,_ he told himself bracingly,  _with him about._

He looked over at her and smiled, once again admiring the lovely sight of her in her costume, and despite himself his heart gave the most pernicious little twist.

Rather than examine  _that_  though, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the key for the padlock on the front door, as well as the older, larger, brass key which opened the house's original lock. Both in hand he bounded up the front steps, opening the locks and the putting his shoulder to the door, pushing until the door gave. It opened with a slow, heavy gravitas, and it was the most peculiar thing, but Sherlock couldn't work out why it would require so much effort. He pulled a small LED torch out of his other pocket and examined the door's hinges, but though they were rusty, they should have had more give in them than  _that._

 _Curios,_ he thought. Though not all that pressing right now.

"Sherlock," John called, bringing his mind back to the present. "You dragged us all the way down here: The least you could do it let us in, Molly's freezing."

And she was. As Molly joined Sherlock inside the dank, dusty house she was shivering.

Without stopping to ask for permission, Sherlock opened his coat and draped it around her bare shoulders, shooting John a smug smile.

His friend rolled his eyes and seemingly prayed for patience.

"Thanks, Sherlock," Molly murmured, and she was smiling into the coat's collar as she said it, doing up the buttons.

"You are entirely welcome," he said, making sure to lower his voice because he had been reliably informed by Mary that women liked that sort of thing. And his voice was lower than most.

He couldn't be certain, but he was fairly sure he  _heard_ John roll his eyes this time, muttering something about "having a word with the Mrs-" As if that would make any difference.

 _After all, Molly clearly liked_ _**him** _ _best._

"So what are we doing here?" Molly asked.

"Yes," John chimed in in irritation. "What  _are_  we doing here, since I thought you and me were going down The Nag's Head for some more recon on McKeever? And since we had discussed not getting Molly to do any more unofficial work for you?"

All of which was entirely true, Sherlock was supposed to have invited Molly to something asinine like the theatre when he finally asked her out.

This, however, was clearly so much better.

"We are here," Sherlock announced grandly, "to solve a forty year old murder." He cleared his throat. "And possibly a centuries old one too."

John crossed his arms tartly. "Explain," he said. "And no words longer than three syllables, please."

Sherlock reached down, searching with his LED light until he found a switch and flicked it, causing a generator to start to hum. That done he flicked another switch, flooding the lower floor of the house with dim, electrical builders' lights. He saw mirrors, peeling wallpaper, damp.  _At least there were no rats._

"This house has been in my family since the early eighteenth century," he began. "It has seldom been lived in, though it was built as a family home. For most of its existence, it has served as one of the Holmes' family's better kept secrets, and preserved the family fortunes through thick and thin."

He paused, ever the dramatist. He couldn't help but notice the gratifyingly wide-eyed way Molly was staring at him.

"And for the length of that time," he continued, leaning in until he was nearly nose to nose with Molly, "the entire Holmes' clan has been convinced it's either haunted, or cursed."

He made a show of waggling his eyebrows.

"Possibly both."

Molly gave an impressively cynical snort at this. "Surely you don't believe in that claptrap, do you?" she scoffed.

Sherlock smirked at her, happy to see they agreed on something.

"No, I don't," he said. "But Mycroft has had men in to oversee a renovation of the place, and they've found human bones in the basement, near where the original kitchen would have stood. A governess disappeared here in the 1760s, which may be why the house originally got the reputation it has, and I suspect the remains belong to her- Though they may belong to a young woman who disappeared here in the 1960s too, when it was also a music venue." He shrugged. "I will have to check. Either way, Mycroft bet me I couldn't solve what had happened here, and said that he already had. Couldn't have that now, could we?"

John narrowed his eyes at his best friend. "Perish the bloody thought," he muttered.

Sherlock grinned brightly at him. Bounced back on his heels. "Exactly! So here I am, looking to learn everything I can about the building before it's either levelled or renovated, and I have my two finest helpers with me-"

Molly blushed. John glowered.

Sherlock smirked some more.

"Now come along down into the basement," he said cheerfully.

Again John snorted. "You didn't watch a lot of horror movies when you were a kid, did you?" he said sarcastically.

"No, John," Holmes retorted primly. " _I_  was literate from the age of three."

"I'll bet that's not the only thing you were from the age of three," Watson groused.

Molly sighed like a mother with two especially difficult children and instantly both men made an effort to shut up.

Sherlock was sure it was more difficult for him, but he didn't say that out loud. Showing off to Molly wasn't a good idea, apparently, so he held his peace. They reached the basement and Sherlock again switched on the builders' lamps, careful to point out the cables to Molly so she wouldn't trip over them. She beamed. John growled.

Sherlock was delighted.

 _This is all going to much better than I anticipated_ , he thought.

And then there was a sudden bang, a flash, and the generator cut out, leaving only the light from Sherlock's torch to see by, joined in a moment my John's and Molly's mobile phones. The three looked towards the stairs, about the trace their way back the way they'd come, and that was when Sherlock saw it.

In the light from his torch a hand-print (small, feminine) could clearly be made out on the wall beside the stairs, its shape dripping blue-black streaks against the ancient pale green wallpaper. The fingers of the hand were running downward as if the hand's owner were being dragged away, the impressions of those fingers narrowing as if the person who made it had literally dug their nails into the wall in an effort to hold on.

As Sherlock watched he felt the strangest sensation, a prickle of goose-flesh under his skin which raised the hair on the nape of his neck. He frowned: that hand-print had not been there a minute ago, of that he was certain. Just as he was certain that whoever had made it had used paint of some sort. Sherlock stared at the hand-print, stared at his friends and then stared at the hand-print again-

And then he did the only thing he could do: He dabbed his finger in the liquid and licked it off his thumb. Tasted it.

 _Ink_? he thought-  _Writing ink. Shellac or possibly lampblack in the mix, can't be modern- Not thick enough to be used in printing, so- Ah!_

He recognised the composition.

 _**India ink.** _ _But who on Earth would use India ink to make hand-prints on a wall?_

He did not however get any further with that thought, because at that precise moment there was another loud bang and an explosion of plaster dust as the surface of the wall came away with a whining, creaking thud.

That was also the moment in which Molly started screaming, but given that a corpse had just landed on her, Sherlock supposed he shouldn't be surprised.


	4. Diamonds and Pretty Clothes

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Thanks for their reviews go to BAdeMorte and Julia Stoner. 

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE: DIAMONDS AND PRETTY CLOTHES**

* * *

  _Basement,_

_26 Old Compton Street,_

_Formerly the Luciferia Club_

Molly, to be fair, only screamed a little.

It was probably more the fright that did it to her than anything else, Sherlock knew.

Besides, who wouldn't scream, having had a wall explode beside them and thence having had a dead body land on them?

Sherlock maybe, but then he was the Great Detective. He had a reputation to maintain (and John never would have let him live it down if he squealed like a little girl).

Molly, on the other hand-  _Molly was, well,_ _ **Molly**_.

Molly was allowed to get upset.

And since she was by this point clearly trying to calm herself, and looked more than a little embarrassed at her outburst, Sherlock felt no need to point out how unnecessary her reaction had been. (Apparently teasing girls you fancied was childish, and, more importantly, it did not get you your desired amorous results. At least, not according to Three Continents Watson on whose romantic expertise Sherlock had elected to rely).

Instead- to John's surprise and apparent approval- he took her by the shoulders, speaking calmly to her as John pulled the body off her and laid it awkwardly on the floor.

"Molly," Sherlock hushed, "Molly, it's alright- It can't hurt you-"

She blinked up at him with those big, brown eyes of hers, their brightness disconcerting in her blue, painted face.

"Sorry," she murmured. "I just-"

Sherlock let his hand stray out to stroke her hair, tucking it behind her ear and smiling at her.

Her cheek felt rather warm against his palm.

"You had a dead body land on you, no wonder you got a fright," he said quietly. "You normally have some warning about that sort of thing."

She nodded, looking relieved but embarrassed. A tremulous smile split her face and Sherlock felt his own grin matching it, his hand still at her hair. Her cheek. He couldn't seem to pull away. The silence stretched out as they stared at one another, something, some electric, jittering  _thing_ sparking between them-

And then, as was his wont, John ruined the moment by clearing his throat. "One, still here mate," he said, looking pointedly at Sherlock. The detective couldn't be sure under the blue face-paint but he could swear Molly's cheeks reddened. His own matched them. "And two, we have just found a corpse-"

"I rather think she found us," Molly said, moving away from Sherlock with an apologetic smile at John and kneeling down beside the body.

Her eyes twinkled as she looked at the detective.

"Well, you promised me an adventure," she pointed out at his raised eyebrow. This time her smile was brighter. "I think this counts-"

"I aim to please." And, feeling slightly discombobulated (but unwilling to examine why) Sherlock hunkered down beside her, his torch angled down towards the corpse as he tried to ignore how the feel of Molly's thigh pressed against his was so bloody distracting.

Without asking his permission Molly reached into his coat pocket and fished out a pen, using it to move aside the body's long dark hair as well as the garish garment it was draped in.

This garment appeared to have been torn during the body's exit from the wall.

"Female, early thirties," she said, examining the cadaver's features. "Caucasian, I think-" She looked at John who nodded in agreement at this assessment- "And mummified, by the looks of the skin.

Sherlock, could I get some more light here, please?"

And without waiting for his permission she reached up, wrapping her hand around Sherlock's wrist and angling his flashlight closer to the body. The detective had no idea why- at least none that he'd admit to- but the pressure of her hand on his skin was as hot as a brand.

He studiedly tried to ignore John Watson's grin.

"Really, John," he admonished under his breath. "This is a crime scene."

"This," John muttered back, "from the man who whistles  _It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas_ during decapitation cases." His smile widened. "You're adorable."

Sherlock shot him an irritated look. "Get bent, short-arse," he grumbled.

If Molly heard John's answering chortle- or Sherlock's scoffing- she didn't say anything. Instead she concentrated on the body before her: The torch showed a small, clearly feminine corpse which matched Molly in height and weight, its paper-thin skin greyish black. It was barefoot, waist-length dark hair twisting in knots about its shoulders. A pair of glasses hung around its neck on a chain, rather like the ones Molly occasionally wore when she was doing her paperwork.

For some reason he did not wish to examine, this thought made Sherlock's blood run a little chill.

"Judging by the dress," she was saying, "I'd say that either she's a fan of vintage or she died some time in the late 60s or early 70s- Which may support Mycroft's story of a young woman who disappeared here when the place was a music venue, don't you think?"

She looked up for confirmation and both John and Sherlock nodded. As she did so she gestured to the hideous, electric pink and lime green mini-dress Sherlock had noticed the body wearing as John laid it on the floor. The detective reached out, feeling the dress's fabric between his fingers.

"100% polyester," he said. It was the raw, heavy sort which was particularly popular in swinging 60s London. "Given the length of the skirt and the overall style of the garment, I'd have to agree with your assessment."

She beamed at him again and he felt like an absolute clot.

One look at John's amused face told him his best friend agreed with that assessment.

"And would you say, given the state of decomposition that the body has been here long?" He asked, the question popping out of his mouth before he'd really decided to speak. (He  _was,_ after all, feeling a bit rattled).

He didn't like that he'd had to ask Molly a question either, since he didn't want to look like an idiot in front of her, and he suspected that's precisely what he'd done.

Molly, however, smiled at him as if he'd just given her a lovely compliment.

_It took Sherlock a moment to realise that he had._

"There's no way to tell, with mummification like this," she stated thoughtfully. "If we took her to my lab we could work it out, but all I can tell you right now is that she's definitely dead. I'm not even certain how this process could have begun, let alone how she ended up in a wall-"

And again she gestured towards the corpse with her pen; John had joined her on the floor by this point, nodding and examining the body for himself. Murmuring about how he couldn't see how the mummification process could have started either, given that it required severe dryness in either heat or cold, neither of which were exactly forthcoming in damp, dreary London.

Sherlock could see that his friend was as engrossed in the work as he was, moving into Molly's space and murmuring observations regarding the corpse's physical dimensions to her. She nodded, smiling at him and agreeing with certain things- height, probably weight, probably build- while ignoring Sherlock entirely. For some reason Sherlock felt a slight sip of jealousy at this, though he knew it was ridiculous. After all, John had a wife he dearly loved in Mary, and he and Molly weren't even going out- Yet. But he still felt that sliver of annoyance, of cold bitterness crawling up his spine-

For a split second he went still, his senses zeroing in on- Something?  _Something._

It sounded like music.

But then, given that they were in the middle of Soho on the night before Halloween, he told himself, such an occurrence wasn't exactly surprising.

Still, for a moment he could swear he heard… a tune. An old tune. One he found familiar, either played on an old-fashioned vinyl record or on an MP3 file which was mimicking one. (He could hear the tell-tale crackle of the needle moving over the plastic). The notes tripped and slid, one over the other. The singer's voice was crooning about some maudlin sentiment, a girl or a boy he thought the world of but clearly couldn't have a rational conversation with, if he felt he could only communicate his feelings through song…

 _You send me,_ the voice murmured.  _You send me, darling you do…_

Sherlock frowned at the sound, looking around, about to ask Molly and John whether they could work out where it was coming from. It didn't seem to be coming from anywhere in particular, but no doubt that was merely a consequence of the acoustics of the house. He took one step forwards, then two, unsure really where he was going-

And just as suddenly the music was gone, disappearing as abruptly as it had arrived. He felt an odd sensation as he realised this, a ringing in his ears, almost as if- Almost as if the music itself had left a… space within him, now unoccupied. A space- an absence- he could actually sense.

_It felt extraordinarily peculiar._

"Sherlock?" John called, and when he blinked his best friend was in front of him, frowning at him, one hand at his elbow. He had his nurse-maid face on, the one he wore when Sherlock happened to get himself into a minor little scrape like being shot at by the Yakuza.

Holmes certainly hoped he wasn't going to start nannying him.

"I'm fine, John," he said impatiently. "I thought I heard something, which isn't all that surprising considering where we are." At the doctor's unconvinced look he rolled his eyes. "Do stop clucking," he said. "I'm fine. You're fine. Even Molly's fine. We've simply had a most unexpected mystery drop into our lap-"

"Oh yes," Molly called happily, apparently delighted with her find. "This is rather interesting- Thank you, Sherlock-"

As she said it she grinned so brightly it was almost painful to look at.

Again Sherlock felt that odd something twist inside him.

Rather than examine  _that_  though, he shot John a "See?" look and- more to distract Watson than anything- he turned his flashlight on the section of the wall from which the corpse had fallen. It was the same section of the wall on which he'd found the India ink he'd tasted, and on which the small female handprint had been left.

Still ignoring John he kneeled down, examining the wainscoting. He really would rather look anywhere right now than at Molly's embarrassingly tempting smile or his friend's worried face. But the ink handprint was no longer appeared to be there: The wall was bare of it. There was no scent, no indication of any substance used to remove it- And besides, who would have removed it?

There was only he, John and Molly here.

Sherlock frowned again at the thought: The handprint hadn't had time to disappear on its own. India ink did not simply fade like that: it was used as a mordant in pathology labs, so indelible did it usually prove. Of course, it was possible the ink had had some sort of element which was designed to make it evaporate added, but he doubted it- Aside from the fact that he hadn't tasted it, how could it be assumed that it would disappear after Sherlock saw it? And if the purpose wasn't for Sherlock- or some other, theoretical interloper in the house- to see it then why bother to set it up at all? Unless Mycroft somehow set this up on purpose when he sent him here- But to what end?

_Mycroft never did anything without reason, not even during a prank._

Sherlock's frown deepened and he leaned in, examining the wood panelling more closely. He didn't have enough data to come to any conclusions yet, not least because he now had a corpse on his hands, which he hadn't really expected. But still, there was something odd going on here. Something almost… showy. The hand-print on the wall. The way the body had chosen that particular moment to spring from within it. He levered his torch at the hole the corpse had made but it gave little insight: There was no evidence the wall was weakened or mildewed, and the outward radius of the burst showed the impetus for the corpse's ejection had come from behind it-

Meaning the most logical explanation was that the wall had indeed caved outwards from the pressure of the corpse's weight. Extrapolating otherwise was illogical: There was no evidence of external manipulation.

 _And yet_ _…_

It was too neat, Sherlock knew. Too obvious. It felt almost like when Moriarty would send him clues, little titbits designed to intrigue him, to lure him deeper into a trap before it could snap shut upon he and his friends. As he mulled over this Molly called out to him, gesturing for him to join her. He did so and she handed him a small scrap of paper, a spider-scratch of letters scrawled across it in what appeared to be a woman's hand.

"Found it in her hand," Molly said quietly. "It was tucked into her fist. I can't make it out without my glasses," she continued, blinking owlishly at him. "Can you?"

_Showing off in front of her may have been neither big nor clever, but Sherlock found it soothing._

"Course I can," he said with a confidence he didn't feel.

So he handed her his torch to hold, examining the paper. It was heavy, cotton weave, distinctive. Possibly handmade, though he couldn't be sure in this light. It was covered in inky finger prints, and, inconceivably, these were slightly wet as if they hadn't just come from inside a desiccated corpse's hand.

 _This was, needless to say, very, very odd_.

Holding the paper close Sherlock peered at the contents: All he could make out were four letters- WƧƧH _-_ the Ss (oddly) written backwards though the penmanship itself was well formed and elegant. _Whoever wrote this had had perfect cursive script._

He opened his mouth to say as much but before he could a bang from one of the upper storeys split the silence, only to be followed by the distinct sound of a woman's scream and the sound of shattering glass-

He and John exchanged looks and immediately they were on their feet, making for the stairs. "Stay there!" Sherlock snapped at Molly as she made to follow them.

The pathologist seemed inclined to argue but he merely shook his head angrily, gesturing for her to stay where she was.

"I don't want you hurt," he snapped, pressing the piece of paper back into her hand. "Stay- Just stay where you are, alright?" And, acting on impulse, he pulled her to him by the back of her neck, his hand digging into her nape as he pressed an impetuous kiss to her forehead.

"I'll be right back," he muttered before thundering up the stairs after John.

It was only when he was halfway up however, standing on the landing outside the room from which the scream appeared to have come and with his hand on the doorknob that he realised something rather peculiar.

For where his hand had burrowed into Molly's hair appeared to be wet- Very wet.

And the substance staining it?

_India ink._


	5. Scarlet for Me, Scarlet for You

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Enjoy!

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR: SCARLET FOR ME, SCARLET FOR YOU**

* * *

_Second Floor Study_

_26 Old Compton Street,_

_Formerly the Luciferia Club_

He didn't have time for this.

Sherlock stared at his ink-stained hand in confusion, trying to work out how the liquid had gotten there. Trying also not to think about the fact that he'd just kissed Molly Hooper- Admittedly, on the forehead but still-

_He'd- He'd almost-_

_She'd know he wanted-_

_**Oh God.** _

The incipient panic-attack might have escalated, but then he heard another lower, throatier yell, heard the sound of heavy footsteps running towards the back of the room even as someone-  _the woman who'd screamed?-_ gasped for breath. Without waiting for his nod John put his shoulder to the door, forcing it open with a loud bang before crashing messily inside, the maglite on his key-ring brandished in one hand and a wooden baluster he'd apparently pried off the staircase in the other.

 _Trust John,_ Sherlock thought, _to find a weapon, even here._

It was of little use though: the room appeared to be empty. Unconvinced, the doctor darted inside, manoeuvring around and then upending furniture in his search for the woman they'd heard screaming. Silence met him but he didn't stop.

 _For all he knew the woman might well now be too injured to make any noise_.

As he worked Sherlock followed behind, more cautious since he was the one with the flashlight and thus the most likely to startle their quarry. He was also trying, rather unsuccessfully, to calm himself after what he'd done to Molly-  _Working out how the ink had gotten on his hand could wait._  He moved carefully through the room, taking in a massive writing desk, ceiling-high bookshelves covered in decaying, mildewed leather-bound books. A portrait of a thin, dark-haired man in Regency dress hung directly over the mantelpiece, moonlight streaming in through the massive bay window to his right-

It took Sherlock a moment to realise that this was odd, that there was something wrong with that. That he shouldn't- He shouldn't be able to see the stars outside.

_He'd thought-_

_The windows-_ _**all** _ _the windows- were boarded up when they were entering._

He back played the moment he, John and Molly had approached the house in his mind, his recall- as ever-perfect. The window had indeed been blocked up; All of them had been. The place would have been inundated with squatters had it not, given its location. And yet…

_He couldn't have been mistaken…_ _**Could he?** _

He might have pondered that thought further but a shadow moved at the corner of his eye, flitting through the door which led from this study to the room next to it. With a quick look at John- "Get going, I'll try to find her,"- he took off in quick pursuit, skidding into the next room and nearly tripping himself in his haste. He saw another darkened space, the floor pockmarked here and there where mildew or age had clearly eaten through the floorboards-

As soon as he entered the room, the door slammed shut behind him.

The sound of it seemed to reverberate throughout the house.

Sherlock merely noted it-  _clearly a draft from the chimney_ \- before moving gingerly into the space. If the floor was in that bad a state he would need to be very careful indeed. His torch was the only light, the air as cold and still as the morgue; Silver dust motes tumbled through his flashlight's beam, looking eerily beautiful in the gloom.

_Everything seemed awfully, awfully still. Waiting, almost._

Again Sherlock dismissed such a ridiculous thought, again he tried to focus. The room was dominated by a massive canopied four poster bed, heavy red brocade curtains hanging off it forlornly and hiding its interior. Matching red and gold wallpaper decorated the walls, peppered here and there with sheets of curling white paper, making the place look somehow shabby and opulent at the same time.  _A place forgotten and never mourned._ A large, elaborate oblong mirror sat over the fireplace, opposite the bed; Its frame was gilt and dull, a series of empty, wax-riddled candlestick holders dotted across its lower half.

Sherlock stepped forward, examining the unusual design whilst keeping his eye on his reflection: Wherever the person he'd seen dart in here was hiding, they'd show up in the mirror if they tried to take him by surprise-

And as if summoned by his thoughts a dark shape appeared behind him, just for a moment, indistinct in the light from his torch.

He turned on his heel, swinging his fist back without hesitation and striking out, hoping to use his greater height to his advantage- Except, now that he was looking at the room, his would-be assailant was no longer there.

In fact, despite the fact that he'd seen someone come in here, Sherlock appeared to be completely alone.

Again, he noted the room's stillness.

_It felt almost… watchful now._

The detective frowned at this, blinked, turned back to the mirror.  _This really was no time to let his mind play tricks on him._  As he did so, his eyes dropped to a piece of paper on the mantelpiece below, one which- he was certain- had not been there before.

It seemed to glow with an eerie sort of whiteness in the pale twilight of the room.

His curiosity tugging at him and he placed the torch on the mantel- near enough to grab if need be- before opening the paper, noting as he did so that it seemed warm, fresh. It was neither dry with age nor mildewed as the rest of the ones pinned to the walls were. As he spread it out, trying not to get any of his own, inky fingerprints on it, he caught sight of those backwards letters once again- WƧƧH- his eye drawn to the hand which had written it-

There was something naggingly familiar about it, though he couldn't put his finger on what.

He dismissed this though, knowing it would come to him. Instead his eyes dropped to the contents of the paper, an ink-and-wash sketch of a slim young woman with her back to the artist. Long brown hair was gathered in wet tendrils over one shoulder and she presented a sliver of her profile to the viewer, the pose somehow making her look mysterious. Aloof. Unattainable.

 _Unknowable_.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, unwilling to entertain such nonsense: He had no desire to look at naked women and never had done. He glanced up and realised that the papers tacked to the walls showed more of the same, each a picture of a dark-haired woman- the same one- with her back to the viewer, her body bare and bared and lovely. Her form uncomfortably alluring- beautiful-for a man proud to be married to his work. _And yet…_

Frowning, unsure why but unable to stop himself, the detective left the picture back where he'd found it and began examining these other works. Each was in ink or water-colour, the hand fine and sure. The model was clearly the same woman though she did not turn her face fully to the artist once in all her portrayals; Everything about her seemed a taunt, as if she wanted the viewer to crave her attention-  _Even as she commanded his._

And command attention she did. Sherlock reached out and touched each picture, unsure why but knowing only that he had to do it. He could vaguely remember why he'd come in here-  _John, it was something to do with John_ \- but the actual reason danced ahead of him, just out of his reach.

After all, why should he think about it when he had this mystery, this woman, in front of him? Why should he care about some unknown assailant when he had this creature to investigate? Time seemed to elongate, to narrow, the call of each painting growing stronger, more achingly, movingly pointed-

And then suddenly he heard a quite audible sigh from behind him. It appeared to be coming from behind the closed curtains of the canopied bed.

As quickly as his fascination with the portraits had arrived it lifted, leaving Sherlock feeling very silly indeed. He rolled his eyes to himself-  _what on Earth was wrong with him, so engrossed in nude pictures that he hadn't even properly secured the scene?-_ And as he thought this he heard it again. That tune from downstairs. That lilting tune.

Except now it wasn't being played by a record player.

No, now it was being hummed, very softly, by whoever was hiding from him within that canopied bed.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I can hear you," he said loudly, taking the humming as an invitation to speak. (After all, had his quarry intended to stay hidden then she- and he was sure it was a she who was humming- would have made no noise). "I suggest you come out, I will have no compunction about dragging you out, especially if the woman I heard scream was harmed in any way-"

No voice issued from the bed, no words were said.

Instead, he heard that same, sad sigh again, the humming voice turning more mournful. More dour. The tune slowing and twisting as it modulated into a minor key.

Feeling uncomfortable and embarrassed and completely out of sorts Sherlock marched over to the bed, preparing to yank the curtains back and expose his target once and for all-

As soon as he was within touching distance of it though this desire sputtered out like a match being extinguished.

Suddenly his body no longer seemed to be his own.

It was the oddest sensation: He could feel the brocade of the curtains in his hand, feel the weight of the fabric as he held them, tried to pull them. But he couldn't seem to do anything about it; He was frozen where he stood. His breath frosted in front of his face-  _When had it gotten that cold?-_ And he could smell the mustiness of the room, dust and wax and damp all mixed in together. He could even sense how precarious the creaking floor was beneath his feet.

And yet, he still couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but stare, and to his surprise…

To his surprise, this realisation didn't scare him.

He knew he should be terrified- horrified- but he resolutely was not.

Because there was something wafting around him now, something… sweet. Fresh. Like lemons and vanilla, a scent he had previously only ever smelt in Molly's lab and one he associated with, well, with her.  _With home_. She scrubbed herself with it, the only thing that could get rid of the smell of decomp' some days or so she'd told him, and one of the most soothing smells in Sherlock's world-

The detective shook his head at this thought, tried to clear it.

He couldn't.

_He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't seem to do… anything._

And then a small, white hand slid out from within the bed- from between the curtains- and stroked its way up his chest, its weight warm. Soft. Alluring.

_Welcome._

It stroked his cheek, curled around to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. Tugging, tugging, pulling down and forward as if determined to have him for its own. Tugging him into the darkness of the bed and Sherlock wasn't entirely sure he didn't want to go.

The humming stopped, soft breathing replacing it.

"I've been waiting," he heard a feminine voice whisper longingly, "Oh why have you made me wait so long?"

Sherlock opened his eyed-  _when had he closed them?-_ and he was in darkness, total and utter darkness. There was flesh beneath his hands, the warmth of another breathing against his cheek. His collarbone. He felt lips, oddly cold, against his own and he didn't know what to do, he didn't know how to stop it, or why he would even try.

And then he was on his back, a weight on top of him. It- She- was warm. Welcome. Waiting. Her tongue brushed wetly against his as she kissed him and he realised in that moment that he'd been mistaken-  _Clearly_ _ **this**_ _was home_. His hands found the flare of her hips, the soft swell of her backside. The delicate, warm weight of a breast filled his hand and then there was nothing else to do but taste and feel…

Outside, abandoned on the mantelpiece, his torch flickered and then went out.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, frost inched across the mirror's glass.

* * *

_Meanwhile…_

Down in the basement Molly Hooper glared up at the ceiling.

"I've had enough of this," she said, and- carefully extricating herself from the corpse they'd found- she headed towards the stairs.


	6. Surrender The Setting Sun

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Many apologies for the delay in getting back to this: RL just got a little mental for a while. (I'll try to be better from here on in). And as always thanks for their reviews go to Nydamascus97, Julia Stoner and Ryvvan. Enjoy!

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE: SURRENDER THE SETTING SUN**

* * *

  _Landing Outside the Second Floor Study_

_26 Old Compton Street,_

_Formerly the Luciferia Club_

She found John on the landing two floors up. He was banging on the door with a wooden balustrade, muttering under his breath about how Sherlock needed to  _open the bloody door_ because he was  _going to bloody kill him._

"Sherlock's in there?"

She asked it as a question though she supposed she didn't need to.

John turned to her. Blinked. Put down the balustrade. He looked surprised.

"Molly," he said. "Where's the-"

"Corpse is still downstairs, John," she pointed out sensibly. "I don't think she's going to get up and walk away, now is she? And if she does, we have bigger problems." She gestured to the door, saw John's expression spike with worry.

_It being John however, "worry," looked an awful lot like, "epic pissed offness."_

"Sherlock has locked himself inside?" she deduced.

The doctor nodded, raking an angry hand through his hair. "He comes thundering up here, muttering about how he can hear someone in trouble-"

Now it was Molly's turn to blink. "So you didn't hear anything before he took off like that?" she said. At his look she shrugged. "I just assumed you did-"

"No," he answered. His voice was chagrined. "I didn't hear anything. But then I've learned not to ask questions when it comes to Tall, Dark and Poncey. You've no idea how sharp his senses are; I swear, the man's part bloodhound-"

Molly spoke over him.  _She was already familiar with Sherlock's capabilities, she didn't need a refresher._  "So, what? He blustered in where angels fear to tread and now he's locked inside?"

Again John nodded. "Well, he must have locked it himself cos he went through no problem but it slammed shut the moment I tried to follow, and now the damn thing won't budge. Hence-"

And he gestured to the balustrade in his hand, hefting its weight from one hand to the other as if he found the motion soothing.  _If it gave him something to do then it probably did, Molly mused._

"But I can hear him in there," he continued. At this he pressed his ear to the door, listening. Molly did likewise but the only thing she could make out was silence.

"I don't hear anything," she said.

John shot her a look of puzzlement. "Are you deaf? He's making more noise than an army- Muttering and swearing and-" He moved his ear from the door suddenly, shaking his head as if he'd just heard something really loud. "Bloody Hell," he hissed, his tone somewhere between horror and annoyance.

He looked back to Molly expectantly.

"You really didn't hear that thud?" he said. She shook her head. "It sounded like he was thumping something… Or some _one_ …"

And John took a couple of steps back, tried to put his shoulder to the door. When this didn't work he went back to banging on the wood with his balustrade, swearing under his breath and more determined now than ever. Convinced, apparently, that his friend was in trouble.

Not that Molly blamed him. Because Sherlock was acting strangely: As lovely as his earlier concern for her safety had been (and as lovely as that earlier kiss to her forehead had felt) neither had exactly been standard consulting detective behaviour.  _In fact, Nothing about this was standard consulting detective behaviour_. And that was without factoring in his other actions.

Bringing her here.

Talking to her like he was nervous.

Not being a git when she screamed like a big girl's blouse just because a corpse fell on her.

None of which was very Sherlock-like.  _Not at all._ And now he was apparently locking himself into rooms and muttering. Making noises. Noises that she couldn't hear. Noises that had John worried.  _It made not a jot of sense_. If she hadn't been around him earlier, she'd almost have thought he was high. But had he been then she knew John would have dragged him back into St. Bart's and made him give a urine sample-

"Sherlock," John was yelling. One of the door panels looked like it was starting to splinter. "Sherlock, let us in. we're worried- Molly's worried-"

The sarcastic snort escaped without her really meaning it to. "Like that matters," she muttered under her breath.

John must have heard her though: He somehow managed to sound sincere even though he was beating the crap out of a door.

"Course it matters," he retorted loudly. He was getting out of breath now. "Why do you think he brought you here? Why do you think he brought  _me_  here? The silly lump has been trying to work out how to ask you out for months.

This is his idea of a date."

And he turned back to the door, making sure to pitch his voice so it would carry through the door, presumably so that Sherlock would open it in order to tell him to shut up.

"Isn't that right, Sherlock?" he yelled. "You've been at this for  _months,_ you lumoxing great pillock."

Molly tried to process what she was being told as he did it, unwilling to believe what John was saying.

"But that can't…" she stammered. "That can't be right."

_Surely John was just trying to goad his friend into opening the door?_

The doctor shot her a look of annoyance. "Oh yes it bloody can," he huffed. These last five words were directed (loudly) at the door. "Seriously, me'n Mary have collective ear talked off, the man's near obsessed with you-"

Molly shook her head again. "But he doesn't- I mean, Sherlock's married to his work. And even if he wasn't, it's tall, buxom brunettes he likes-"

Images of Miss Adler and Janine the Kiss and Tell Hussy flashed through her head; Comparing herself to those women was useless, destructive, but habit meant she did it anyway.

Despite the seriousness of the situation though, John threw her a small smile.

"It might be tall, buxom brunettes he chases after," he pointed out, "but it's the short, clever ones he really sticks with. Me, Mary.  _You_. I know he acts like a muppet but I swear to you, Molly: He's serious. I wouldn't have offered to help him if I didn't believe he was."

He turned back to the door.

"None of which will make a lick of difference if he DOESN'T BLOODY OPEN UP, YOU WANKER-"

And he started banging, even more loudly on the door, nearly shaking it on its hinges. Suddenly, as John's voice rose to near epic proportions, the door cracked a little open.

A pair of electric blue eyes appeared behind it, staring over John's head and into Molly's eyes with a force which rooted her to the spot.

 _Oh,_ she found herself thinking.

_Oh, my._

For a moment nothing happened, but then… One slim, muscled arm poked out and reaching for her arm, the elegant fingers hovering a mere inch or so from her flesh.

At seeing the door's movement John took a step back, the hand holding his balustrade falling to his side.

He opened his mouth to speak to his best friend but no sound came out. Likewise, for Molly.

_She felt like she might never speak again._

Sherlock opened the door more fully and stepped through it, his gaze still riveted on her. Both his hands travelling lightly up her arms now, the heat of his skin teasing, nearly touching, until his palms came to rest on her bare shoulders. She so wanted to say something- anything- but she found her tongue still inexplicably tied. Her breath misted in front of her face and she realised, with a sudden, jarring jolt, that it had become unmercifully cold.

She shivered, but it wasn't just from the drop in temperature.

_At least, she didn't think it was._

Not that she could think about that though. Not right now. For, without saying a word, Sherlock leaned down, his forehead coming to rest on hers. His head cocked to the side, eyes closed, as he let out the smallest, most lonesome little sigh Molly had ever heard.

It sounded like his heart was breaking right there in his chest.

Without asking permission- without saying anything, in fact- the detective let the hand at her right shoulder ghost upwards, sliding up to cup the back of her head and then bury itself in her hair. He caressed her nape, his breath puffing warmly against her cheek. Reached down and pressed a small, chaste kiss to the very corner of her mouth and instinctively she leaned into him in answer.

"Sherlock..?" she murmured softly. She really wasn't sure what to make of this. "Sherlock, are you..? Does John need to..?"

But though she asked the question neither he nor John spoke not a word.

Instead, without warning, his other arm reached down and hooked about her waist, pulling her flush against him. The unexpected action caused her to stumble and she tumbled forward, her body colliding with his. She gave a little gasp and he smiled, the hand in her hair sliding down to join his other at her waist, his grip on her tightening.

She felt almost locked against him, and she found she didn't mind it at all.

This time it was her mouth he pressed a kiss against, the contact too fleeting and soft for Molly to really react to it, more's the pity. All she could do was let out a sigh, far happier than Sherlock's had been, as she pressed herself against him.

It took her a moment to realise that he'd pulled her inside the room.

But pull her inside he had. She could see the brocaded, mildewed walls, feel the bare panels of the door against her back. The cold had followed her inside, though apparently John had not. Sherlock pressed her back against the door, his body flush against hers, his breath whispering in her ear. Against her hair. It felt so good to have him here.

"There you are, little bird," he was murmuring softly. His arms tightened even more perniciously around her, his grip becoming almost painful. "There you are," he whispered, "there, pressed right against my heart, where you should be, where I wanted you... You can be sure that I'll never let you leave again…"

And without asking for permission, without even acknowledging the best friend he'd left standing outside, he tipped Molly's face up by the chin and leaned down, kissing her more fully. More hungrily. There was nothing chaste about him now. It felt… it felt odd. Cold.  _Wanted._

For some reason Molly could not fathom she was having trouble breathing, but it didn't seem like a good thing at all.

But she didn't want it to stop.  _She knew she didn't want it to stop_. Her eyes fluttered open-  _when had she even closed them?-_ and as they did she looked up into Sherlock's face. She took in his dilated pupils, the heaviness of his breath. The faint chill that seemed to tremble through his skin, the delicious feel of his body, tight and hot against her own. There was something she should ask, she knew it, something about- Had there been someone else with them, someone both she and Sherlock cared about…?

 _John,_ her memory whispered.  _You need to ask about John…_

And then Sherlock reached down and kissed her again, his hips pressing insistently against hers, her hands finding their way to curl possessively in his hair.

In that instant John Watson- and anything that wasn't in the room with her right now- was forgotten.

As she pulled back from the kiss she opened her eyes again and smiled at Sherlock, her own hands aching with the desire to touch every inch of him. He reached down and kissed her again, eyes burning, and that's when she noticed it.

For swarming under his skin, along the pale blue veins of his face she could see… letters. Hand-written words. They slipped and slid together, sinewy as ink and ribbons. Shivering with a serpentine grace.

 _Mine,_ they read,  _mine._ _ **Mine.**_ _All mine._

And then Sherlock kissed her again and there was nothing more she was willing to see.


End file.
